


Extracurricular

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (kind of), Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sex Magic, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: When an illicit book comes into his life by chance, seventeen-year-old Severus Snape discovers sex magic (or the next best thing to it). He embarks on an experiment (for entirely academic purposes), enlisting the caretaker as an unsuspecting but eager test subject (for purely pragmatic reasons), only to find the results more interesting than even he hypothesized.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancesontrains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancesontrains/gifts).



The book began circulating through the Slytherin dormitories in January. It was untitled and apparently unauthored, written out by hand, and had reportedly been pilfered from someone’s father’s library over the Christmas holiday. The better part of two months passed before it was handed down benevolently from the seventh years to the sixths, and by the time it reached Severus Snape at the very end of a long line of other people’s bribes, favours, and friendships, the pages were close to falling out with wear and stuck together in several places.

Severus pulled a face and prised two leaves apart with the end of his wand. The charmed pen-and-ink drawing of a naked woman looked up at him in the mechanical facsimile of interest as she continued to dance. An enormous serpent twined itself around her body, both covering up and drawing attention to the main points of interest. Severus observed her undulation with all warranted prurient interest before flipping to several more dog-eared pages featuring similar illustrations of ladies in a state of undress.

Then, unlike everyone who had received the slim work before him, he actually read the text:

_The Acte of Sexual Congress belongeth to the Order of Primal Spells and through its Performance invoketh both the first and final of the Twelve Natural Forces: **Gennáō** and **Ekstasis**. Men of Common Wisdom long have understood the Role of these Forces such as may be wielded coequal by the Lowest Beasts and Man in the Conception of Offspring and Furtherance of Species. Knowledge more secret held solely by Wizardes of Power is the Performance of the Acte in Profundity. Through the Summoning of **Ekstasis** by Willful Intent and the Making of the Great Signes a Wizarde of Ability may render for a time the Destruction of that which standeth between the Mind and the Divine Well from which springeth the Source of All Magic and in doing so thus direct the Force of **Gennáō** in greatest Feats of Creation._

Words such as “secret” and “power” held nearly as much appeal for Severus as dirty pictures. He read on for several pages in growing fascination until he reached the dramatic two-page spread of a wizard receiving the Source of All Magic directly into his mind by way of stylized lightning. Severus considered the figure, who was casting sparks from a wand held in one hand and writing on air with a quill in the other, and then twitched aside a bed curtain to peer out at the dormitory.

It was a Saturday afternoon and everyone else had left for Quidditch practice or to congregate in front of the fire in the common room. To be safe, Severus cast a modified muffling spell on the bed curtains, followed by a reduced locomotion charm that set them swaying very slightly as if some vigorous motion were disrupting the air within. He did not wish to be interrupted, and privacy for wanking was the sole inviolable boundary in the boys’ dormitories.

Precautions secured, he grabbed a roll of parchment and a quill. The book proved to be warded against duplication spells, and Severus was forced to copy by hand. A great deal of the meaning eluded him as he hastily reproduced the text. It all seemed very metaphysical and was littered with obscure Greek terms and unfamiliar runes for which he would need to consult the dictionaries. Nevertheless, certain passages caught his interest along the way, and these he marked with asterisks in his notes for future study or else paused and read through twice.

_All Living Beings hold within them Power that sustaineth Life. So too doth the Wizarde of Ability hold in him Power which fueleth the working of Magick. When the Acte of Sexual Congress is performed in Profundity between two Wizardes of Ability it is thus that Power meeteth Power and in accordance with the Law of Nature the Greater must absorb the Lesser._

This came as news to Severus, who very often thought about sex in a general sense but had never had cause to consider the practical application. The principle made intuitive sense. It was like duelling, he surmised. The stronger party bested the weaker party, albeit usually through the channelling of spells rather than the collision of raw energy, and in doing so gained a portion of the other’s ability and knowledge through the capturing of their wand.

He learned as he read on that this exchange had been performed between masters and apprentices since Time Immemorial. The young regenerated magical energy more quickly than the aged, and the book commended the practice as a way for a Protégé of Virtue to make up for the expense of his keeping and education while learning the proper Methodologie for Primal Magick from a Most Learned Wizarde.

Severus turned another page and froze.

“Bugger,” he muttered aptly, tearing his gaze away from the picture to snatch up the quill he had just dropped. He licked his thumb and impatiently scrubbed a smear of spilt ink off his coverlet.

The figures on the page had not let his clumsiness interrupt them. There were two of them. Both male. Both naked. One was taller and broader and bearded. The other one was obviously the apprentice, smooth-cheeked and curly-haired. It was a complex and lengthy illustration, and the charm was wearing thin, making the picture flicker and occasionally stop.

Severus cautiously peeked out at the empty room again before ducking back into the shelter of his bed and watching the illustration through its full cycle several times through. He barely blinked, although he occasionally shifted uncomfortably on the mattress.

This was how it went. First the master painted sigils on his chest, abdomen, wrist, and foot. He then approached his apprentice and touched him between the legs. Lines denoting the flow of magical energy began wavering between the two. The apprentice threw his head back and opened his mouth. The picture went blank for an instant before the two reappeared. Now the apprentice was bent over at the waist and the master was standing behind him. They were moving back and forth together and the master’s prick was going _inside_ , although whether that was between the apprentice’s thighs or up his arse, Severus couldn’t say for certain no matter how closely he watched.

He checked his muffling charm, got a hand in his robes, and in short order had the bed curtains swaying in double time.

* * *

Severus’s notes found a home in between the pages of his History of Magic book. No one ever thought to snoop in school books, and no one cared enough about History of Magic to borrow a classmate’s copy if they had misplaced their own. He was no artist and had not wished to be caught with even a tracing of that particularly interesting illustration, but the memory of it was shelved in the library of things he thought about while wanking. It was possible that he might have relegated the illicit text to the realm of theory and forgotten the provenance of the illustration entirely in time if the unnamed book had not then been stolen from the fifth-year dormitory shortly after leaving his possession.

An internal house investigation was carried out and the culprit, a fourth-year boy of particular initiative, was discovered and sentenced. As punishment, the miscreant was transfigured into a tufted marmoset for an evening and hung from his temporary tail in the upperclassmen’s lounge for general jeering.

“Did you read it?” Severus asked Henry Mulciber as they lounged on a couch amidst the mob and idly lobbed hot chestnuts at the marmoset whenever they had a clear line of fire.

Henry executed a particularly neat shot, tossing a chestnut overhead where it bounced off the ceiling and came down smartly between the marmoset’s ears. “Read what?”

“You know.” Severus nodded over at the recovered book, which had been set on the mantel and was looking much worse for wear.

Henry shrugged, peeling the next chestnut for himself. “I glanced at it.”

“Yes,” Severus pressed, “but did you _read_ it?”

He could not say why the question felt so urgent, but sitting close to Henry on the couch with all this excitement going on caused him to persevere. Henry was the only person he knew who might have been interested in more than those dog-eared pages, which in fact now looked to be torn or worn loose and protruding from between the ragged covers. Severus greatly admired Henry, who was witty and did not care about wasting time being nice to people. It occurred to him that he might propose an experiment on the subject, wholly in the name of magical theory and esoteric learning—

“It’s a wank book, Snape. Don’t be weird.”

Severus’s face flushed. He picked up a chestnut and hurled it forward with his best aim of the evening. The marmoset squawked, and a roar of laughter overwrote the awkward silence between him and Henry.

This was for the best, Severus assured himself a few days later when the humiliating memory resurfaced for the thousandth time as he was trying to catch a staircase in between classes. Yes, he generally got better marks than Henry, but the two of them were evenly matched when it came to throwing hexes and practising their duelling. If they had embarked on an experiment together, wholly in the name of magical theory and esoteric learning of course, Severus was not in fact certain who would have been sacrificing power to whom.

Thinking about the matter logically, the only people here at school whom he could be confident about besting were the younger students and the more stupid of his classmates. The former held no intrinsic appeal, and he had limited interaction with them anyhow. The latter he actively disliked and furthermore could not trust to understand the situation. They might think he was making some sort of social proposal, or worse, that he _fancied_ them.

He scowled as a boisterous display down on the next landing proved his point about his classmates’ idiocy. Preston and Watley-Hughes were making hooting noises and exaggerated kissing faces at Rosier as they shoved him at the wall. Rosier, far from drawing his wand as Severus would have done, guffawed in response and loudly declared that both Preston and Watley-Hughes were screwing their sisters.

“You three! No mucking about in the corridors!” Mr. Filch appeared out of nowhere, charging toward them and seizing Watley-Hughes by the ear.

Severus leaned over the railing and watched as a telling-off was administered. He caught the words “flogging” and “sleep standing up.” His mouth ran dry as two pathways of thought that should have run parallel abruptly intersected.

Filch lived in a completely different set of Severus’s fantasies than the ones in which Lily took his hand in front of the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team or even the ones in which Henry climbed into his bed after lights out. Severus had long ago intuited from the tiresome and occasionally incomprehensible laddish talk in the dormitories that there were the things you were supposed to think about when it came to girls and sex, or at least the things you were supposed to make other people believe you thought about. On his own, he had discovered that there were also the things you thought about when you were bored and home alone during the holidays, wanking for the sixth time that day in an empty house and dreaming up the nastiest stuff you could imagine to keep it interesting.

Everyone said Filch was a pervert. They said he was a boy-fancier and that he would try to touch you up when he beat you. Severus knew very well that Professor Dumbledore did not let anyone get beaten anymore, and yet the rumour still had a ring of plausibility. Filch was not good looking, but there was something about him that Severus found exciting. It might have been the way his voice went all soft and menacing when he talked about whips and screams. Or how he went around in trousers, sometimes with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Severus was aware he could never even whisper this aloud to anyone as long as he lived, but looking at Filch made him think about what he had seen that one time in Manchester, and he—

Filch came up a set of stairs that had finally swung around. “Dilly-dallying, Snape?”

Severus blinked and then shook his head quickly, scrounging up an excuse. “I only wanted to tell you that someone vandalized the portrait of the Red Bishop again.”

This had the benefit of being true. Or at least the part about the vandalism was, even if he’d had no intention of reporting it.

“Bloody little savages,” Filch muttered. “No respect for school property.”

“Yes, sir,” Severus said virtuously, which might have been pushing his luck.

Filch looked at him for a long moment with suspicion in his eyes, but six years of general studiousness and a willingness to inform on the Gryffindors had apparently earned Severus the benefit of the doubt.

“Good lad,” he said with an approving nod and continued up the stairs and down the corridor.

Severus hurried down before the staircase could change its mind, willing himself not to look back as a brilliant and terrible idea began to take shape.

* * *

That evening, he skipped dinner to ensure privacy and locked himself in the bathroom alone. He stripped down to his pants, hanging up his robes and undershirt on the peg and cramming his socks into his boots. His supplies were laid out along the edge of the sink. He rubbed his arms briskly against the chill of the empty room, avoiding his half-naked reflection in the mirror as he consulted his notes.

Once he had reviewed the steps, he used a silver knife taken from Potions class to draw a shallow cut across the back of his forearm. He worried at the wound, causing more pain by pinching than he had with the blade as he struggled to get enough blood into the glass phial. In a small cauldron borrowed from the common room, he set fire to the handful of holly leaves he had plucked from the tree in the courtyard. The resulting smoke was thick but inoffensive, and Severus watched the little flames as he applied loo roll and pressure to his arm.

When the fire had burned itself out, he sieved the ashes into the phial and added water. The book had not specified boiling water, or spring water, or water that had sat out in an ivory dish for three hours on a moonless night, so Severus assumed tap would do. The resulting mixture was a thin black ink with a hint of ruby sheen.

He looked at his notes again and tried to recall which finger the bearded man in the illustration had used to paint the sigils. The little one, he thought, although the man’s hands were not what he chiefly remembered. He dipped the little finger of his left hand into the ink and reproduced the sharp-edged sigil from the book on the inside of his right wrist, taking care to align the central stem with the vein.

The sigil on his chest proved more difficult, as he had to do it upside down. He squinted as he compared the lines over his heart to the drawing in his notes. That seemed correct. He put his left foot up on the edge of the sink and drew the third sigil on the top of it, halfway between his ankle and his toes.

He held still with a frown, trying to decide whether he could feel anything yet. There was a certain...tingle. A sort of itchy, tickling feeling where the ink was drying. He was also getting a stiffy, and while this was a regular and random occurrence during the day, he tentatively decided that this felt like a magically significant stiffy.

The fourth sigil presented the biggest challenge. Like the one on his chest, it required a certain amount of leaning back and thinking upside-down. An added challenge was that the man in the illustration had been depicted with no more than a few flicks of the pen to represent his body hair. Severus was unclear on how low to place this last shape in light of the straight, sparse trail that had appeared below his navel earlier in the year. He eventually settled for painting the spiralling shape just above where the curls started in earnest.

His abdominal muscles tightened as he drew the last line. There was a definite thrumming sensation, and it felt as if his blood were rushing between the sigils, pumped from his heart to his hand and foot and to his prick, which was now standing up straight.

The thought of what he had seen last summer had been squirming for attention all day, and now he finally let it unfold. A service station just outside Manchester where his father grudgingly pulled in on the way back from a wretched family visit. Hurrying out of the car and heading into the public toilets alone. The familiar thought, halfway between concern and hope, that his parents might just drive off without him. A short blond man loitering outside the door to the toilets, seeming to startle at his presence before looking him over and letting him pass without a word.

A sticky floor and the smell of bleach. The narrow stall and his bafflement at the clumsily made hole in the side it. A glimpse through at the two men on the other side.

Severus rinsed the ink off his finger and then braced himself on the sink, closing his eyes as he stroked his prick. His mother had always said that Muggles did nasty things, like animals. That’s what it had been. Nasty. Disgusting. He had left without even using the toilet, stuck with an aching bladder and an unnerved feeling all the way back to Cokeworth.

The grotty lining of duct tape around the hole. A rolled-up sleeve baring a thick forearm. A pair of brown trousers and a pair of denim ones, the zip undone. An enormous prick jutting out of a thicket of hair.

Filch obviously had not been educated at Hogwarts. Severus suspected he was practically a Squib, with the way he carried his wand around tucked in the back of his belt, never drawing it. Practically a Squib, but obviously not a complete Muggle. The man had to have some magic, even if he looked like he had just stepped out of a lorry in some car park outside Manchester. He could see the school for one thing, and he could repair moving portraits and work charmed keys that would have been nothing but iron in Muggle hands. If Severus—

_“Come on,” one of the men in the next stall whispered to the other. “Get your cock out, mate. Yeah. Nice.”_

If he—

_A big hand with red knuckles groping at a straining bulge._

It would only be an experiment—

_That massive prick, flushed dark. “Suck me.”_

Severus came so hard that his spunk hit the mirror, the first spurts streaking down the glass as his hand flew in a flurry of strokes. He groaned, and the last shots arced into the basin of the sink. He stilled. His jaw unclenched, and he breathed out unsteadily. The sigils were burning now, he could feel it, the inflamed skin beneath them outlying flares of red that matched the ugly flush blotching his cheeks.

He scrubbed off the marks and then cleaned the mirror and the sink, locking back up the memory of Manchester and formulating a plan.

* * *

“Not going to give me any trouble, are you?”

“No, sir,” Severus said.

As luck would have it, he managed to arrange himself a detention within the week. This had not been an entirely deliberate action, nor on the surface was it an entirely desirable one. The detention had been accompanied by a ten-point loss for Slytherin and an hour-long nose bleed after circumstances had demanded a violent exchange of curses with Sirius Black. Nevertheless, Severus had spent several days wondering how he might contrive to get himself alone with Filch, and now the opportunity presented itself.

“List,” Filch said, “and key.” Both were pushed across the desk at him.

“Yes, sir,” Severus said.

He had never minded detentions with Filch. Every other member of staff at the school tripped over themselves to kiss Black and Potter’s arses. Even a seemingly soft detention with one of his teachers, such as marking quizzes or stunning mice, would inevitably be accompanied by a lecture on how everyone had to get along with each other in the adult world and maybe he would surprise himself and find he liked those two if he really took the time to get to know them.

Filch was reasonable. He disliked students in general but had a special dislike for Gryffindors on the grounds of their volume and aptitude for destruction. And sometimes it almost seemed as though he exempted Severus from his blanket hatred. There was no social benefit to being liked by Filch, but there was a practical one. For example, while Black was scheduled to scrub cauldrons on Sunday, Severus had been assigned to spend this evening restocking the classrooms.

It was a simple task, and he liked wandering around the school after dark when everyone else had to be in their dormitories. He spent the next hour carrying boxes of chalk and rolls of parchment to each classroom on the list, checking off the items absently as he worked, his mind fixed on strategies and his chest tense with nervous anticipation. He would need to be discreet. Filch would not be academically motivated to assist him in his experiment and could in fact get him in serious trouble if there were a misunderstanding.

But then, Severus could get him in serious trouble as well.

The thought emboldened him. He was capable of subtlety, and there was no question that he was more intelligent than Filch. If rumour was wrong about Filch being a pervert, then there was no need for the man to realize he was making an advance at all. Plausible deniability was key. He only needed something that _suggested_ , something that _hinted_. A lie that was only a lie if they both knew he was lying.

His lips shaped his lines as he delivered a box of feathers to the Charms classroom and then worked themselves around the edits as he made his way back down to the ground floor. He lurked in a corner of the Entrance Hall for a time, conjuring excuses to hold in reserve and waiting for his heart to stop beating so loudly. He was worried the ink might be rubbing off against his clothes, ruining the fresh set of sigils, but the one on his wrist seemed to be doing all right. Besides, this was primal magic. It had to be smear-proof.

When he felt that he was once again breathing like a normal person, he returned to Filch’s office, knocked, and was admitted.

“Finished already, are we?”

“Nearly, sir,” Severus said. “I was going to tidy the cupboard before locking up.”

Filch seemed to approve of this, which was to say that he at least nodded before grumbling. “Then what are you hanging about here for?”

Severus paused, licking his lips reflexively. He was interested to note that Filch glanced at his mouth. “I had a question.”

“Out with it.”

He put on a small frown that he hoped communicated uncertainty of whether this was even worth bringing up. “Is there another poltergeist in the castle?”

Filch’s frown was more straightforward. “What are you on about?”

“A poltergeist, sir. Besides Peeves, I mean.”

“No.” The frown remained, but there was a questioning tone to his reply. It suggested that Filch was willing to believe for the moment that Severus wasn’t just lollygagging.

Severus’s unconcerned shrug had been rehearsed several times in the Entrance Hall. “Something odd happened when I was in the stationery cupboard earlier.”

Filch narrowed his eyes but let him go on.

“The door blew shut,” Severus said, his palms beginning to sweat. “And locked.”

“Someone was playing silly buggers,” Filch said.

“No,” Severus replied quickly before Filch could get it in his head to go hunt down the culprit. “That’s what was odd. I had the key in my pocket, and I didn’t hear anyone. I didn’t see anyone. But there was...something in there with me. Breathing down my neck.”

Filch still looked suspicious, but there was a different light in his eyes now. A hesitant one. “Breathing down your neck.”

Severus nodded, his stomach fluttering as Filch held his gaze. He let the silence sit. Only an amateur liar rushed in to fill the gaps. He waited, aware that Filch might point out what any reasonable person would: that ghosts as a rule could not breathe.

But he did not. With a casual air that did not fool Severus for a minute, he said, “Ought to have called for help, then.”

The fluttering in Severus’s stomach intensified. “The cupboard’s so far out of the way, there wouldn’t have been any point. No one would have heard a thing. Besides…”

He had Filch’s full attention. The man’s gaze followed his hands as he straightened his robes.

“...it wasn’t a major imposition.”

Another long pause ensued.

“All right,” Filch finally said, still looking at him with that queer hesitancy. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

Severus nodded. “I’ll finish straightening up.”

Great effort was required to keep his motions measured as he left the office, “forgetting” to shut the door on his way out in a way that he hoped would encourage Filch to follow him. He crossed the Entrance Hall at sensible speed and turned down the narrow corridor that led to nothing much but supply cupboards and storage rooms. The torches were few and far between, leaving currents of darkness in between the islands of light. A few portraits hung on the walls, but their occupants were either dozing or had gone visiting. It was too quiet even for ghosts.

Severus let himself into the stationery cupboard and left the door open behind him. He began tidying up, or at least making a show of pushing the boxes of chalk around. It was a misfire, his mind insisted. He was standing here like an idiot waiting for no one. A full minute passed before he heard footsteps at the far end of the corridor.

He was careful not to turn around. This type of experiment might have been new to him, but he knew all about secrets. There were the things you would do when someone was watching and the things you would only do if no one could prove it was you. He kept on stacking the little boxes as the footsteps came nearer. Only when the dim torchlight was blotted out by someone standing in the doorway did he stop. He stayed facing the wall and set his hands on the shelf.

His heartbeat picked up again. Twelve beats before Filch stepped into the cupboard. Sixteen before the door shut quietly, leaving the cramped space in complete darkness.

He could hear Filch breathing behind him. There was the briefest warning, a small sense of motion, and then something touched his back. Severus barely stopped himself from flinching. The touch paused and then continued, running slowly down his spine from just below his shoulder blades to just above his pelvis.

Filch’s hand once again halted. When Severus made no protest, it moved down to his backside.

One second Severus was uncertainly half-hard and the next he was almost faint with the ferocity of his erection. It had to be the spell. That was it. No one got this excited just from having someone touch their arse. Physical contact had been initiated and now the sigils were obviously channelling energy, drawing magic into him and awakening a ravenous metaphysical appetite the likes of which he had never experienced.

Filch stroked his backside, softly at first and then more firmly, groping at it. Severus’s breath caught at a hard squeeze, and his face burned when a thick finger rubbed along the crack in between. Then Filch reached around to his front, and Severus’s knees nearly went out from under him at the brush of a palm over his prick.

He gripped the shelf for support. Filch was tracing the outline of his prick, pushing it up against Severus’s abdomen and rubbing the underside. Severus trembled. He had always told himself that despite all the fuss, someone else’s hand could not feel all that different from his own. Evidence now strongly suggested otherwise.

Filch moved closer, a warm shadow draped over his back. Severus could hardly focus on anything but the rubbing of his prick, but he became dimly aware of firmer contact against his backside. Not a hand this time, but Filch’s hips and the solid ridge of something very hard pressing along the crack of his arse.

The spell sent a wave of heat and vertigo crashing over him. He could hear Filch’s breathing roughen and got a sense of the full preposterous measure of the man’s prick as it pushed harder at him. A strange sensation thrilled in his stomach and shot through the veins of his wrists, conjuring that metaphysical hunger again. He made a small sound in his throat.

“Shhh,” Filch whispered.

Severus had no intention of making any further noise, not even to point out that he was not stupid and hardly wanted to be caught. He closed his eyes, concentrating on stillness and silence as his robes were pulled up. The sensation of air on his bare legs made him shiver. There was a tug and tightening around his waist as Filch twisted the jupe and shoved the material between Severus’s stomach and the edge of a shelf to keep his robes from falling back down.

Before Severus could fully process this development, Filch’s fingers had slipped through the opening in the front of his pants. His hips jerked forward without his permission, and he only barely swallowed down another sound. Filch lightly stroked the length of his prick, rubbing up against his backside again. Something was definitely happening. He could feel the half-healed cut on his arm throbbing as his heart seemed to pump twice as hard as normal.

He twitched at the ticklish brush of a hand as Filch unbuttoned his pants. They were eased down to his thighs and then slid the rest of the way to his ankles, leaving him naked from his waist to the tops of his socks. He went rigid with embarrassment at the exposure, even in the darkness, but he soon heard the unbuckling of a belt and rustle of clothing behind him and relaxed slightly. As long as things were fair, he thought, then—

Capacity for further thought vanished when Filch’s hand curled around his prick. The hand was bigger than his own, rougher-skinned and warmer. More than that, it moved undeniably like a stranger. Scarcity of time and an overabundance of hormones had meant that Severus was accustomed to getting a tight grip on himself and pumping as hard and fast as he could until he finished. This was different: firm and sure, but slower, more persuasive than demanding.

Severus folded his arms on the shelf and buried his face in them. His back arched slightly, and he could feel Filch’s bare prick rubbing against his arse. The notion flickered through his mind that he ought to have more pointed questions about where that was going to go, but then the stroking came a little faster with a snugger grasp just under the head of his prick and he stopped caring about anything else.

 _Ekstasis_ —he could feel it overtaking him. It was more than the usual relief of wanking or the excitement of doing something in secret. The pleasure was shocking, electric, making his abdomen contract, making his heart pound and his hands clench and his toes curl.

He bit down on his forearm, sleeve half-crammed into his mouth to keep from crying out as he came. Everything in him seemed to pull tight and then shudder loose. His eyes squinched shut, white light flaring before them. Filch’s hand kept moving, steady as anything, only it hardly registered as a hand any longer. It was just energy, force, an inarguable surge that wrung the spunk out of him for what felt like minutes.

Then he was floating. Darkness gathered up around him. Filch had braced an arm beside his and was pushing more forcefully at him, his prick sliding between Severus’s cheeks and nudging into the small of his back over and over again.

Filch’s breathing was all he could hear besides the pounding in his ears, puffing in heavy bursts with long silences in between. Fingertips dug into Severus’s hip, and coarse hair rubbed against the backs of his thighs, but these were far away compared to the heavy throb of magic flowing through him.

A long, rough exhalation. Something warm and wet spurted onto his back and dripped down. Filch’s prick kept pushing hard at him, but it slowed. Paused. Pushed a few more times. Stopped.

Severus was not certain how long they stood there afterward. He was not certain he was standing at all. His eyes opened and shut several times before he worked out which state was which. Eventually he felt a cloth pass over the small of his back, wiping up the mess. What proved to be a handkerchief was pressed into his hand, folded up but noticeably damp. Severus had no idea where he had shot, but he got what felt like a dribble off his prick and then pulled up his pants and let his robes fall back into place.

Filch had stepped back to fix his clothes. He was still breathing loudly, but it was steadier now. Severus leaned against the shelves for a little while until the sound of Filch’s belt being buckled reminded him of where he was and what he was doing.

He groped for the door handle and let himself out into the corridor.

* * *

And this was _Gennáō_.

He burned through two candles that evening and scribbled his way through an entire roll of parchment before the night was over. There was no natural light in the dungeons, but he could swear he felt the movements of the stars and the moon as the hours passed, ticking inside him like a universal clock that set rhythm to the frantic scratching of his quill. 

Ideas welled up in his brain and flowed effortlessly to his hands. He felt awake. He felt _alive_.

His skin was still warm and tingling faintly, and he had taken off his robes and undershirt to sit in his pants and socks as he worked. His mind felt likewise stripped bare, clear and quiet in a way that it never was at school, or at home for that matter. The snoring from the beds around him was mere noise instead of annoyance as he recalculated his draft spell from scratch, runes and arithmantic equations crammed into every corner of his last foot of clean parchment. 

He drew his wand, adjusting the placement of his fingers and clipping the syllables this time. “ _Sectumsempra!_ ”

Crimson light flashed, and a trio of deep slashes gouged the solid oak of the footboard where before only paltry scratches had left their mark.

* * *

“Did you hear something, Macnair?”

“Not a thing, Brewster. Maybe it was a ghost.”

"Maybe it was you breaking wind again.”

“Maybe it was your mother breaking wind!”

Severus rolled his eyes and gave up trying to talk to his dormmates. He was apparently still being punished for the ten points lost through his run-in with Sirius Black. Intra-house fighting was banned in Slytherin. One might arrange a duel after hours in the Dark Forest or administer mild poison to a housemate if the situation was serious enough, but anything as low-class as petty squabbling was unacceptable. As a result, ostracism was liberally employed for minor disputes.

Unwilling to debase himself by forcibly provoking an end to the silent treatment, Severus retrieved his satchel and left peaceably. He trusted it was understood that the door only slammed behind him because of the draught.

It was a half-hour before curfew, and the dungeons were noisy with people coming and going from the common room. Severus weighed his options and then went upstairs where it was quieter. He meandered along the ground-level corridors, tempted between going to the library and seeing whether the kitchens were unattended. Before the deciding branch was presented to him, however, he noticed a patch of freshly mopped floor.

He halted. After a long moment, he opened his satchel and rummaged past his books until he touched a small bundle of cotton. He had initially considered throwing Filch’s handkerchief away but it had ended up going through the laundry with the rest of his things. The projected details were vague, but it had occurred to him that he should hold onto it as evidence, in case blackmail were required.

In an odd way, it was evidence for him as well. What he had done with Filch seemed like the sort of memory that ought to plague him like a sore tooth, making itself known with a pang throughout the day and keeping him awake at night. Instead he found himself having to chase after it to remind himself that he had really had what was almost sort of nearly sex. The memory had an unreal feeling to it, even when he wanked to it, which he had done six times in the past three days.

Tucked inside the folds of the handkerchief was his phial of blood-and-holly ink.

Severus looked again at the wet path leading around the corner. He then walked into the nearest bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later. Paused. Went back in. Waited for his erection to subside. Emerged again.

He picked up the trail of drying flagstones and followed it, his boots leaving faint imprints as he closed in on his quarry.

Filch was found at the far end of the Transfiguration department. He looked up sharply as Severus approached, and his mouth opened for an instant, but nothing came out. There were no barked questions about what Severus was doing wandering the corridors this close to curfew. No rebukes about footprints on his nice clean floor. This seemed promising.

Severus stopped about twenty feet away and leaned against the wall. Discretion, he thought. He reached into his pocket for Filch’s handkerchief and pulled it out just far enough for Filch to see what it was. Plausible deniability. He could always say he was only returning it.

Filch looked up and down the corridor and then back at him. “What do you want, then?”

His voice was unusually quiet and soft, careful in a way that Severus had never heard before.

“I was looking for someplace to study,” Severus said, hoisting his satchel as proof.

Filch was silent again, staring at the satchel, or maybe at the handkerchief sticking out of Severus’s pocket. He looked nervous, which was an exciting inversion of the natural order of things.

“Someplace quiet,” Severus prompted.

A precarious few seconds passed in which he was convinced Filch would order him back to his dormitory. Then the mop was propped up against the wall and Filch walked away, looking back to check that Severus was following him. They took a winding path in tense and anticipatory silence down several narrow corridors that Severus did not recognize, leading to an unassuming door.

The room on the other side proved to be dark and small. Severus could only judge the size by a certain stuffiness in the air and the way it sounded when the door shut, as the place was packed tightly with stacked trunks, rolled-up rugs, and furniture under sheets. He ventured in further, his hand running along the edge of a table, and heard the jingle of keys and then the click of a lock.

“Lumos,” Severus whispered, flicking forth a wand-lighting charm. It would hardly be convenient if he bumped into something and caused an avalanche in here. Besides, he was interested in getting a better look at things this time.

The glow illuminated the wall of storage, picking out shapes from the shadows. It only barely outlined the breadth of Filch’s shoulder, owing to the darkness of his coat. Then Filch turned around and it caught the pale stare of his eyes and the faded white of his shirt above his heavy waistcoat as he advanced.

Severus resisted the urge to take a step back. He held still, wand in hand, as Filch reached down and snatched the handkerchief out of his pocket.

The item in question was briefly waved at him, but there was something about the look on Filch’s half-lit face that made Severus think of surrender instead of admonishment. He felt himself getting hard again.

“That’s thieving,” Filch said, but it didn’t sound as if his heart was in it.

“Not if you lent it to me,” Severus replied.

He watched Filch crumple the handkerchief and shove it into his coat pocket. The urge to press was as irresistible as it was foolish, and despite his caution he gave in to it:

“My understanding was that this was a loan. Since I wouldn’t have needed one if it wasn’t for you. It was a loan, wasn’t it?”

Filch hesitated and then nodded slowly. “Slipped my mind, was all.”

Now Severus did take a step backward, not out of nervousness but at the insistent pressure of the hand on his hip. His feet dragged uncertainly in the shadows, but in a moment his back was up against one of the rare patches of bare wall. To his left, something like a wardrobe loomed under its shroud. To his right, a few flat trunks were stacked to waist height. He set his wand down on the top trunk and in its glow found it difficult to take his eyes off the front of Filch’s trousers. His fingers twitched, itching to reach out and touch, which he attributed to some spark of energy routing through the fresh sigil on his wrist.

"What am I to do with you, hm?"

Severus did not know the exact answer to this question, but his prick reacted reflexively to the tone. He licked his lips and then shut his eyes as the back of Filch’s knuckles brushed over the front of his robes. ‘Anything,’ he almost said, or worse, ‘Please,’ but he held the words back. This proved wise, as he would later find that he got what he wanted anyhow.

Filch lowered himself to his knees. He pushed up Severus’s robes. Then his mouth—

“Er.” Severus’s face flushed, although whether from the fact that he could feel Filch mouthing at his prick through his pants or from the stupid exclamation he had just uttered, he could not say.

He could not breathe either. The air stuck in his throat, and in the silence he could hear the subtle but unmistakable rasp as Filch’s tongue—

"Oh," he said.

The sensation was strange, embarrassing, exciting. Severus squirmed, holding his robes up with one hand, the other pressing flat against the wall behind him. His fingernails scraped at the stone as his fingers curled. Then his pants were pulled down, and before he could fully brace himself for it, there was nothing but wet heat around his prick and a sucking pull that made his legs shake.

Despite the ubiquity of the insult, Severus had always privately doubted that anyone actually did this. He did not know why this was, because obviously… _obviously_ if wanking felt good, then sucking would feel even better. Filch was gripping the back of his thigh, and the sounds he was making were almost as filthy as the feeling of his mouth: heavy breathing, and slurping, and a low hum as if he liked what he was tasting.

Everything inside Severus went tight, and his hand left the wall, reaching uncertainly for Filch’s shoulder instead. The coat bunched in his grasp, and his arm jerked, trying to pull Filch closer in a desperate demand for more while at once trying to shove him away because he was perilously close to coming. 

He could not say it—despite every nasty jeer he had ever hurled, every oath he had ever muttered, he had neither words nor breath to warn that he was about to shoot his spunk. He would not—would not say it, certainly would not do it, because no matter how near he felt to the edge, he clearly would not do _that_ in _someone’s mouth_.

But he did. With shocked pleasure, he came so hard that everything went black. Blood rushed in his ears, roaring like the sea as his head jerked back and barked against the wall. He felt rather than heard the strangled sound he made, just as he felt Filch’s fingers digging into this leg, possibly holding him up as the throbbing, thrashing feeling shook him to his core.

Then, relative quiet.

Severus became aware of his breathing again: shallow. His heartbeat: fast. His hands and feet: numb. He concluded this last must be because of the spell, but other than this realization his mind was still.

Filch was standing up again. He had got his hand between Severus and the wall and was groping his backside.

Severus looked down, swallowing hard when he saw the obscene bulge in Filch’s trousers. This time he did not stop himself from reaching out. Filch’s quick exhalation was interesting, and so was the way he went very still and seemed to draw in his stomach as Severus unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He wasn’t wearing any pants underneath, which Severus discovered by touch a split second before sight.

“Oh, good lad,” Filch whispered, seeming to watch very intently as Severus wrapped his fingers around him.

Filch's prick was as big as it had felt rubbing up against him, as big as the man in Manchester’s had been. Maybe even thicker. The thought of that made the muscles tighten again behind the sigil on Severus's abdomen, and his own prick started to change its mind about going soft.

Filch squeezed Severus’s backside again, and then his other hand settled on Severus’s shoulder. It sat there, lightly kneading. Severus took the hint—or that was how he would choose to remember it later. In the moment, his mind quiet and his body shaking with magical energy, and it seemed as if the world simply rearranged itself to fold him down to his knees.

The floor was cold and seemed more sharply sloped than it should have been. Filch was holding his prick, thumb and two fingers curled snugly around the root of it. Severus could smell the stuff Filch cleaned the floors with, and something warmer and thicker beneath it, like the scent you got when several boys had been wanking in the dormitory at the same time.

"Go on," Filch whispered urgently. "Give us a lick.”

This seemed a fair request under the circumstances. Severus wet his dry lips and then did as he was asked. Filch’s prick was warm against his tongue. It didn’t taste as strange as he had thought it might. Skin like any other skin, only softer and a touch salty. He took a second lick to be certain, his tongue dragging from where Filch was gripping himself right to the top. He realized he could feel Filch’s pulse and then figured out that the salt was from a drop of the stuff that came out early on sometimes.

"That’s it. Just like that,” Filch said again, and the way his whisper went ragged made Severus’s prick throb as he licked him again. “Open your mouth, now. Let me put it in. There’s a good lad.”

Severus was not convinced that Filch’s prick could fit in his mouth, but he opened up nonetheless. To his surprise—and a more obscure feeling of satisfaction deep in his stomach—it did. His face burned to the tips of his ears as the fat head of it pushed past his lips and lay heavy on his tongue. He gave an experimental suck, which made Filch swear under his breath.

"Fucking hell. Wiggle your tongue a little for me. That’s it. Good as gold.”

Filch’s prick inched in deeper, nudging at his throat. Severus made an instinctive sound of protest at the prospect of choking. Filch immediately drew back and readjusted his grip on himself, seeming to mark off how much Severus could take.

"Lean back, lad. Lean back, there we go.”

He had expected to feel stone against the back of his head, but Filch’s other hand was there instead. For a second, the strangeness of having his head touched was all he could think about, but then the cushion proved welcome as Filch _pushed_ , half wanking and half thrusting into his mouth. 

"That’s it. Just let me—oh, that’s it.”

Severus could taste salt again as the first few inches of Filch’s prick slid back and forth along his tongue. His mouth was suddenly very wet, and he swallowed rapidly.

"Oh, clever lad. Keep that up.” Filch grunted softly and the back-and-forth grew quicker.

The magic had hooked itself in deep. Severus felt it pulsing through him, and he reached down, trying to get a hand up his robes. He was stymied, given that he was kneeling on the hem. He gave up and stroked himself through the cloth instead, the pleasure intensified by the unfamiliar sensation of the lining against his naked prick.

"A little harder,” Filch was whispering now between harsh breaths that were more like panting. “A little harder now, suck it—oh, here it comes—“

Severus felt the strange tremor an instant before he tasted the results. Filch’s spunk flooded his mouth, salty and slippery. He swallowed instinctively and felt it slide down his throat only to be replaced by more as Filch spurted again. The primal spell caught full fire, and Severus came abruptly in his robes, whimpering as he ground against his hand.

"Oh, good lad. That's it, swallow it. Good lad."

He could not remember rising to his feet some time later, only of swaying slightly afterward and running his tongue around in his mouth. It seemed to him that they stayed in the storage room for quite a while before Filch walked him back to his dormitory, holding him by the collar as if he’d been caught in some mischief. Severus could not bring himself to care, his blood fizzing and his mind open to the universe.

* * *

The subsequent burst of creative energy killed two birds with one stone. He spent the next week working on an explosive compound that he sold to Avery for a sickle, by extension breaking the silent treatment. He then sold another batch for two sickles to Rosier, who wanted revenge on Avery for blowing up his trunk.

With such successful results, he saw no reason to stop. He continued going out, always just before or after curfew and always ending up in a different place. He was taken to the boiler room, where he was sucked off again twice in a row before getting on his knees and swallowing another mouthful of Filch’s spunk. This fuelled a four-hour study session in which he finally got his head around divinatory coefficients.

In a disused Potions laboratory, he was sat on the desk with his robes up and knees spread. Filch’s rough hand wrapped around both their pricks and wanked them off in tandem. Severus came three times to Filch’s one that evening, his first two loads of spunk slippery between them as Filch’s grip slowly tightened. The next morning, Severus sat a Transfiguration test without a nervous stomach for the first time in his school career.

Upstairs in the music room, he locked his legs to keep from sliding down the wall as Filch spat out his spunk and then used the slick mess on his fingers to—

Well. As far as Severus saw it, the only drawback to the whole endeavour was that all of this opening his mind to the source of all magic caused it to occasionally wander. He squirmed in his seat while effortlessly dashing off a short essay in History of Magic class.

That first slow rub back and forth in a place that shouldn’t feel as good as it did. _“Like that, do we?”_ The first disarming stretch. _“God, you’re tight.”_ Then the vivid spark of magic as fingertips pressed inside him and sent lightning through his nerves. _“Good lad. There’s the spot.”_

* * *

The book had not said anything about a thrall effect, but Severus wondered if one might not be developing. As the experiment went on, Filch proved inclined to fetch him a snack from the kitchens afterwards: some bread and butter, or cold chicken, and once even some leftover pudding. He had also let Severus into the stationery cupboard to help himself to some of the good parchment, and had procured an extra blanket for him after an idle complaint about a chilly night.

This obviously called for vigilance. Severus had read his share of cautionary tales about magic gone out of hand, and he wasn’t stupid. He made coded notes about his observations and kept his wand close at all times. However, the only really alarming thing that seemed to come of it was that Filch started kissing him.

“Here, let me—”

Filch set his lantern down on the floor and backed Severus up against a sheet-covered table. No sooner had Severus stopped than Filch’s mouth was on his. Kissing was objectively strange if you thought about it, and kissing a man seemed even stranger. It was certainly unnecessary in an academic arrangement. That said, Severus found he did not really mind it. For something that was usually associated with girls and romance, kissing was surprisingly dirty.

Someone else’s tongue in his mouth. Teeth pulling softly at his lip. The prickle of stubble against his chin. He liked the way he was pressed back, Filch’s weight coming to bear on him more and more the longer it went on. Filch had grabbed his backside again, squeezing it, and that turned Severus’s thoughts toward something worthier of his attention.

The topic of buggery had been on his mind for days. He had been thinking about the way the magic seemed to spark every time Filch put his fingers inside him. A consultation with his copied text had not revealed anything on the topic, but there had been the illustration, and it stood to reason that if sucking and fingering were this effective, then buggery proper would yield even more creative energy.

He waited until Filch had finished with the kissing and then shoved a jar at him that he had borrowed from the Potions supply room.

Filch looked blank. He took the jar, screwed the lid off, and sniffed the contents. Only then did he seem to catch on, his gaze darting to Severus.

Severus shrugged languidly as if he went around asking people to sodomize him all the time and Filch was only wasting his own time by waiting. A part of him, specifically some nerve deep in his stomach, was uncertain whether Filch’s prick would rightly fit in his arse. However, he had to admit that it fit in his mouth just fine, albeit with a tendency to leave him with a sore jaw if Filch took too long to come. Then there were Filch’s fingers, and while he had no idea how many of them had been up him at once, they had never left him with more than a faint ache.

“Worth trying,” Filch muttered, and despite the indifference of his words, he was quick to reach for his belt.

Severus pulled up his robes and turned around to brace his hands on the table. His backside was thoroughly groped, which was only expected by now. He had begun to think Filch had some sort of perverted fixation on that part of him for reasons unknown. His pants were pulled down and he was felt up again. This was better, hands on his bare skin, stroking him all over from prick to tailbone. He heard Filch set the jar down and then embark on some less explicable motion.

He blinked as the light got brighter and turned his head to find Filch setting the lantern on the table. "What—?"

"Have to see what I'm doing, don’t I."

This seemed suspect, but Severus was not about to betray his ignorance by arguing. He rolled his eyes to be on the safe side. The light was not very bright, just enough to leave the place in dim gold and rosy grey instead of blackness. He looked down at the shadows on the table as Filch took a portion of the true aloe and seemed to squish it around between his fingers. A moment later, those fingers were rubbing at his arsehole, making his prick perk up and his shoulders stiffen in cautious anticipation.

It felt as strange and good as it had before. Slippery and warm. Oddly satisfying. More than a little embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as it surely was for Filch to get so hot and bothered over doing it, so that was all right. It went on for a little while before something changed. A twinging stretch made his breath catch in his throat. He could feel his hole twitch.

“Get on a hand on yourself,” Filch said. “It’ll be easier.”

Severus hesitated but eventually reached down. His erection had flagged a bit at the twinge, but a few strokes brought it back.

"There we go. Give that pretty thing a nice rub.” Filch’s fingers seemed to ease back a little, stroking back and forth with downward pressure until a spark made Severus moan. "Like that, don't we? Greedy."

"Shut up," Severus muttered, his face going hot as his hole grasped at Filch’s fingers. He could hear the soft sounds of Filch touching himself too.

He lowered himself onto his forearm for steadier support. The position was awkward, but it felt good to pull himself off in time with the motion of Filch’s fingers. They worked at him for a long while, sometimes stroking just an inch inside him and sometimes twisting in deep, then easing out and coming back with more true aloe until he thought he must have half the jar up his arse.

They pushed in again, rubbed, turned, and then there was a sharp increase in pressure. Severus hissed, and Filch froze.

"I didn't say stop,” Severus snapped.

Filch hummed a rusty sound that Severus could not decipher. His fingers pulled out again and came back even slicker this time, rubbing on the outside a while. Then the pressure came back, and Severus held his breath to keep from hissing again. The pressure eased for a moment and then returned, accompanied by a sharp pang that made him look over his shoulder, certain that half of Filch’s hand had to be inside him.

It was not, or at least as far as he could see. Filch stopped again.

"Just put it in," Severus said, inclined to get it over with.

“Shhh.”

He gritted his teeth. "I n—want it—"

"Let’s see you come first,” Filch urged him. “Go on, let’s see it.”

The pressure had eased once more, but Severus could not rightly tell if he had conquered it or if Filch had taken a finger out. However many were inside him were back to rubbing at him shallowly. He craned his neck to try to see.

"You're going to give yourself a crick.” Filch eased out entirely. “Turn around."

Severus could hardly see what that was going to accomplish, but he reluctantly did so. He was promptly lifted off his feet and sat on the edge of the table. Filch put a hand on his chest and pushed him down. Severus went over backward and was about to protest, but then somehow his legs were bent back and those fingers were inside him again. His feet were on Filch’s chest, and the sight of his boots pressing into Filch’s waistcoat more than made up for the indignity of his position.

He started wanking again, the dual sensations pleasurable enough that he did not even protest when his robes were shoved up higher, followed by his undershirt. He closed his eyes, pushing with his feet as the rubbing inside him turned vigorous and the sparks flew again. Filch might as well have been a wall, something immobile to brace himself on as he stroked his prick harder and faster. He could hear the soft skin-on-skin smack of Filch pulling off at the same time and an even fainter squelching sound that made him flush hot to his ears and come without warning.

“God, look at you,” he heard Filch murmur as his body jerked, his spunk hitting his chest and running down his ribs. The smacking sound intensified, and within moments he felt another shot hitting his stomach, not his own this time, followed by a wet spurt that dribbled along his prick and made him squirm with an aftershock of pleasure.

Severus was still catching his breath and reflecting on the throbbing ache in his arse when Filch mopped up the mess with his handkerchief. The heat lingered in his face at the thought of their mingled spunk. His prick twitched, sensitive but game as Filch wiped it clean.

"What's this?” Filch asked, prodding a finger just below his navel.

Severus dragged his eyes open and lifted his head to look where Filch was looking. The sigil on his abdomen had evidently smeared while he was bent over the table, and now it had mostly been rubbed away along with the spunk. 

"It's a sigil,” he said in a tone of voice meant to convey that this was painfully obvious and any further questioning would only betray Filch’s complete ignorance.

Filch frowned. "Oughtn't draw on yourself."

"It's for homework,” Severus said.

"You're getting a rash.” Filch rubbed his thumb at the spot just above Severus’s pubic hair. “Look, you're all pink.”

Apparently there was some veracity to the rumour that Filch could see in the dark. Severus could not make out any pink in this light, but he could admittedly feel a slight burning from the spell. "It's magical after-effects."

Filch’s hum was sceptical. “Looks like a rash to me.”

Severus huffed an impatient sigh. "It wouldn't be pink if you hadn't just—done that all over me."

To his satisfaction, Filch glanced away and stopped poking at the sigil. “Couldn’t help that, now could I. The way you looked…”

Filch at least had the good grace to start sucking him off again after ruining his experiment like that. Severus lay back, his legs over Filch’s shoulders, absently rubbing his itchy wrist against the table top. Obviously Filch was not in a position to understand the intricacies of primal magic, but that was forgivable. Severus had not involved him in this for his intelligence.

* * *

Over the following fortnight, he was forced to conclude that buggery was an advanced science. This was evidenced by the amount of practice it seemed to require. Severus was regularly burgling the Potions laboratory, and while he was aware that Professor Slughorn was sharper than he appeared when it came to the theft of rare ingredients, the man did not seem inclined to notice the disappearance of something as common as true aloe. By now, a mere whiff of the stuff was enough to give Severus an erection, which proved inconvenient on the day they brewed Dragon-Fire Salve in class. He was meeting up with Filch—conducting the spell and gathering data points, that was to say—nearly every night, and each of those nights inevitably involved coming until he couldn’t see straight with Filch’s fingers up his arse. 

The matter of...accommodation was slowly resolving itself, but ‘slow’ was a speed for the unambitious and unimaginative. 

This was not to say that Severus was going to do anything foolish. He was merely taking extra steps to remedy the situation. When everyone else had gone to the Hufflepuff common room to cheer on Slytherin’s inter-house Gobstones finalist, he shut himself away in the empty dormitory. He extensively charmed and hexed a two-foot perimeter around his bed before drawing the curtains and taking matters into his own hands with a fresh jar of lubricant and a thick taper candle liberated from the upperclassmen’s lounge. 

It took both more force and wheedling than he had thought it would. He had to brace one foot on the end of the bed and push hard, gritting his teeth. No joy. He lay back and closed his eyes, pulling at his prick in the hopes that arousal might help things along. He thought about Filch in the name of preparing for the real thing. Filch leaning over him. A big hand on his chest, holding him down. The other one holding his leg back. 

_“Good lad. Nice and easy, there we go…”_

All right, getting hard did help. He tried again with the candle, rubbing the end over his hole the way Filch did with his fingers. Slow circles. A little more pressure on each rotation. He felt himself opening for it, then a twinge followed by a dizzying feeling of slippery ease as the end popped in. 

He held his breath. It did not exactly hurt, but the pressure brushed up against the edge of pain. He braced his leg more firmly and kept turning the candle as he eased it in further. Then, repositioning himself half on instinct and half with the memory of his boots on Filch’s chest, he braced his other foot as well. His hips rose and his back arched. The pressure immediately eased.

His fingers were still slick with aloe as he groped for his wand, but he managed a locomotion charm nonetheless. The candle started moving slowly back and forth.

Severus’s legs trembled. He only barely kept from moaning, his voice held back so that all that came forth was a sigh. A bead of fluid blurted up from the tip of his prick and dripped slowly onto his stomach. He got his hand back around his shaft and started pulling himself off in a fury, imagining something even bigger, something faster and deeper and hotter and _more_.

* * *

He could not stop thinking about it. 

Not for the rest of the evening as he brought himself off once with his legs spread wide and then again on his elbows and knees, face buried in his pillow. Not for the whole of the night in which he tossed and turned for hours before finally falling asleep and having a muddled wet dream in which Filch followed him into the public toilets at King’s Cross, which was somehow in Manchester, and touched him up in a stall. Not through the next morning as he sat on a hard bench during a droning History of Magic lecture, acutely aware of a lingering tenderness. Not through the afternoon, when his Potions book never left his hand because he kept getting hard every ten minutes.

By the time his last class let out, there was no standing it any longer. He followed the herd of his classmates down the corridor as far as the stairs and then, without drawing attention to himself, doubled back and continued on to Filch’s office. 

He let himself in without knocking. Filch was sitting at his desk, his expression flickering in quick succession from indignation at the interruption to pleased surprise and then to wariness as Severus shut the door behind him and took out his wand.

“Not in here,” Filch said flatly.

Severus ignored him and cast two locking and muffling charms.

Despite the tell-tale pop in the air that indicated the charm had worked, Filch kept his voice barely above a panicked whisper. “Are you listening to me? Not in here.”

It occurred to Severus that he did not in fact have to listen to him. This was borne out when Filch pushed his chair back and stood up but made no real move to throws him out. Severus advanced, dropping his satchel and Potions book along the way, and did not stop until he was on his knees in the narrow space between Filch and the desk.

“Bloody hell,” Filch wheezed and sat down weakly.

Severus’s hands shook slightly at his own daring as he reached for Filch’s belt buckle. He could feel all the blood in him coursing to his prick at the confirmation that he could make a grown man do what he wanted. The thought was dizzying. He swallowed hard, his mouth watering as he got the buckle open and unbuttoned Filch’s trousers.

Filch did not try to stop him, and his prick stiffened up fast for a man who purportedly did not want to do this in here. He seemed afraid to even breathe too loudly, his hand coming to rest very lightly on top of Severus’s head.

Severus sucked him insistently, tongue lashing, mouth rough and demanding, taking his prick in as far as it would possibly go. His face was all but buried in Filch’s lap, which mercifully hid the colour in his cheeks. He could feel his own prick dripping in his drawers without so much as a finger laid on it. Filch’s fingers trailed down to the back of his neck, and Severus felt the man’s thigh muscles tense.

He pulled back. Filch’s prick slipped out of his mouth, an angry red and wet all over with spit. Filch stared down at him with a helpless expression. Before he could lose his nerve, Severus stood, turned around, hiked up his robes, and bent over the desk.

By the sound of it, the chair nearly fell over in Filch’s haste to get to his feet. Severus fished the jar out of his pocket, slammed it down on the desk top, and braced himself on his elbows. His pants were pulled down, and he sighed impatiently as Filch groped his backside. The hint was obviously taken, as he soon heard the lid popping off the jar and clattering to the floor. Severus drew in a sharp breath at the chilly touch that followed.

“Sorry,” Filch muttered, and the subsequent motion warmed up the gel acceptably.

On second comparison, it was clear that Filch’s fingers were much better than a candle. They were less blunt, not as rigid. They moved just as steadily against him, but with sapience, more inventive than the straightforward thrusting of a locomotion charm. They applied more of the aloe, rubbing it around until he felt embarrassingly wet from his tailbone to his bollocks.

Filch’s fingers pushed in, working the gel up inside him and firing up the exchange of magic. Severus closed his eyes tightly as his nerves sang. The fingers delved deeper, possibly just one at first and then what he thought were two, sliding in to the knuckle with hardly any trouble.

“I want your prick,” Severus managed to blurt out, his face now blushing so hard that he could feel his pulse in his cheeks. “I mean it this time.”

Filch exhaled loudly. His fingers slid out. There was another fast, slippery sound and then—

A noise eked out of Severus’s throat, and Filch clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Sh-sh-sh, it’s all right, it’s all right…”

The incredible pressure increased, and Severus pushed into it. He swallowed back the deep groan that rose from his chest, afraid that Filch might stop if he heard it.

“That’s it,” Filch murmured. “There we go. Almost there, now.”

Severus bit the inside of his cheek. The pressure decreased, but to his shock that first intrusion was not even half of it. Filch pushed forward, and Severus was shaken by a sudden fullness far beyond what a candle or fingers had prepared him for.

“Almost there. Good lad. Just a little more...”

Severus felt himself tighten up for an instant, struck breathless by not just the girth but how deep it was going. Filch made a guttural sound, fully against him now, the warm wool of his trousers scratching at the back of Severus’s legs. Severus forced himself to relax, pressing back into it when Filch started slowly moving. He swallowed hard, feeling sweat prickle up all over him. 

“Easy now, sweetheart…”

It took several suffocating moments and awkward fits of movement to get the hang of it. There was an undignified scramble that ended with Severus’s knee up on the desk, but the pay-off was worth it when the remaining pressure turned into something that sent pleasure shivering all the way through him. Severus arched his back, stifling a moan against Filch’s hand.

The sounds that ensued were the dirtiest things he had ever heard, a steady smacking sound ringed with panting. The rhythm picked up, making the desk shift alarmingly beneath him. Filch muttered an oath and took his hand off Severus’s mouth, bracing it on the desk top instead. Severus absorbed the full shock of the next thrust, his moan deeper this time. 

“God, the heat of you…” 

Something as bright as charm-fire flared behind his eyelids as Filch reached around to stroke his prick. Severus grasped futilely at the desk, trying to hold back and failing spectacularly. His abdomen contracted with such violence that he thought he was going to cramp from coming so hard. He distantly heard his own full-throated cry, felt Filch’s hand clamp over his mouth again, and gasped as the edge of the desk cut into his hip at the force of the next thrust. Tears welled up in his eyes at the surge of energy, a raw and overloaded sensation stabbing him over and over with the rapid strokes of Filch’s prick inside him. 

“Fuck, fucking hell,” Filch groaned, his weight pushing Severus down as he screwed his last thrusts in roughly. “Gorgeous, you gorgeous little tart…”

Severus trembled. Choked back a hitching breath. Nearly came again.

“Shhh.” The world closed in on him. He felt warm breath and the brush of lips on his neck. "It's all right. Good lad."

His hands were still tingling several minutes later when, once again dressed and marginally decent, he lay sprawled diagonally in Filch’s chair with his head on the arm rest. It was not a particularly dignified position, but lying sideways had more or less restored his equilibrium. He watched through half-open eyes as Filch cleaned up the desk, erasing any proof save for the state of Severus’s arse that they had been doing something terrible in here.

“Bendy as a cat,” Filch said, looking at him with a funny expression.

Severus reluctantly unfolded and tried sitting up. He winced. 

“I should—” This was interrupted by a yawn, and he tried again. “I should go study before dinner.”

“I don’t know,” Filch said. “Wouldn’t hurt to stay a few minutes. Just until you’re back on your feet.”

With that, he went and unlocked one of his filing cabinets. He took out what proved to be a packet of biscuits and returned, stooping and pressing a kiss to the top of Severus’s head. Severus pulled a face but tolerated it for the sake of a snack. 

“Don’t spoil your dinner, mind.”

Severus hummed vaguely in agreement as he took two of the chocolate ones. He found himself looking at his sleeve and realized with a blunted start that he had neglected to draw the sigils. Yet the spell had obviously worked anyhow. His mind was open, filled to the brim with the clear, still waters of the divine source of magic, and he felt like he could take over the world. 

There must be a cumulative effect, he thought, and wondered if he should start writing his own book.

* * *

“Arithmancy? You’ll go blind from all this excitement, Snape.”

Severus paused in his note-taking and raised his eyebrows as Henry Mulciber slid onto the library bench beside him. 

Henry grinned, giving him a jab of an elbow to show all was well. “What are you doing this Hogsmeade weekend?”

“I don’t know yet,” Severus said, only having remembered there was one because Filch kept grumbling about chaos and loose leads. “You?”

“Well…” Henry looked around and then leaned in closer.

The feeling of his arm pressing against Severus’s elicited a small thrill, but it was only a shadow of the heart-pounding reaction it would have warranted a month ago. Severus wondered if he was getting inured to that sort of thing because of all the sex.

“…I’ve got an invitation to one of Lucius Malfoy’s salons”

There seemed to be a slight emphasis on the name, as if Severus should recognize the significance. He remembered Malfoy, who had been a prefect when Severus was in his first year, but he had only met him by chance in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade a few times since then.

“That’s nice,” Severus said and returned to his notes.

Henry was silent. Severus paused, sensing that something more was expected of him. He raised his eyebrows again.

“Fine,” Henry sighed as though Severus had called his bluff. “I can bring a guest. Do you want to come?”

Severus hesitated. While anything involving contraband drink was called a salon in the upperclassmen’s lounge, he had never been to a proper one. The idea of it was appealing, but the logistics less so. He had a feeling school robes would not pass muster, and his only pair of dress robes were two inches too short and had the style of collar that made everyone ask if they had belonged to his grandfather. Which they had.

“Come on, Severus,” Henry wheedled. “Everyone’s going to be there. We’re going to talk politics, and Lucius’s father has an amazing wine cellar.”

Severus was certain that not everyone was going to be there, or else what was the point of an exclusive salon. Nonetheless his mind flashed to the prospect of an empty dormitory in a nearly empty castle and the possibility of getting Filch to bugger him in his own bed. He was suddenly grateful for the presence of a sturdy table six inches above his lap.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, beginning to calculate how many times he could conceivably have his prick sucked before the end of term sent him home for the summer, “but I may stay in. I have a project at a critical stage.”


End file.
